The Stratford Murder

by Mike Hollow

  ‘Were you emotionally involved with her?’

  ‘Absolutely not. Look, Inspector, this is what happened. Joan heard that I gave singing lessons and she asked me to coach her. I said I would, and we started – I would visit her flat once a week. There’s no denying it, she was a pretty girl, and neither can I deny that I could have fallen for her – in my mind I was still the young man I was forty years ago, full of strength and energy. But then I caught myself in the mirror and realised that in fact I’m just a silly old fool. The very idea of it was ridiculous. Besides, she’d shown no interest in me and had neither said nor done anything to lead me on. So I concentrated on helping her to improve her singing, and that was all there was to it. The poor child had a dream of becoming a singer, and I was just doing what I could to help her.’

  ‘When was the last lesson you gave her?’

  ‘It was last Wednesday – the Wednesday before she died.’

  ‘Did you see her after that?’

  ‘No.’

  Jago heard a key turn in the front door, then the sound of it shutting. A woman’s voice cried ‘I’m back’, and the door to the living room opened to reveal Vera Ballantyne.

  ‘Oh, sorry to disturb you,’ she said.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Jago. ‘Do come in.’

  She smiled and entered the room, depositing a shopping bag on the floor and then sinking into an armchair with a sigh of relief.

  ‘Don’t let me interrupt you,’ she said. ‘I’ll get you a cup of tea when I’ve recovered.’

  ‘No thank you, Mrs Ballantyne. That’s very kind, but your husband’s already offered, and I’ve declined.’ He turned back to Ballantyne. ‘Just one last question, if you don’t mind, Mr Ballantyne. Can you tell me where you were on Sunday evening?’

  Ballantyne shifted his gaze to the ceiling and looked thoughtful. ‘Sunday? Ah, yes, I was in Birmingham, visiting an old actor friend from my performing days. I went up on the train Sunday morning and got back Monday afternoon.’

  ‘And your friend will be able to confirm that for us?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He’s a wonderful man – the sort of chap who’d do anything for a pal.’

  ‘So you were here on your own, Mrs Ballantyne?’

  ‘Most of the time, yes, but I don’t mind. If you work in the theatrical world you get used to being apart.’

  ‘Including Sunday evening?’

  ‘No. I’m not so good on my own after dark nowadays, what with all the air raids, but Audrey came over to stay the night. She’s very good like that.’

  ‘Thank you. You’ve both been most helpful.’

  ‘Before you go, Inspector,’ said Ballantyne, struggling to his feet.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve got something for you.’

  Ballantyne crossed the room and opened the door of a Victorian mahogany chiffonier that was a little too large for the room but nevertheless to Jago’s eye a magnificent piece of furniture. He pulled out a cardboard box and began rummaging through it.

  ‘Ah!’ he said at last. ‘Here it is. After we spoke last time – about your father – I had a look through some of my old mementos and I found this.’ He handed Jago a theatre handbill. ‘I told you I’d appeared with your father in the old days, when we were both touring the halls. I dug this out because I thought you might like to see it – we were both on the programme together at the Hackney Empire all those years ago.’

  The sheet was dated 1902, and Jago had already seen Ballantyne’s name listed as the twelfth act on the programme, followed by the name of another man identified as a ‘character comedian’. His eyes skimmed down a few more acts and then he read the words ‘Harry Jago, popular vocalist’.

  He heard his own voice soften as he spoke. ‘Thank you, Mr Ballantyne, that’s very kind of you.’

  He handed the programme back, but Ballantyne waved it away.

  ‘No, you keep it,’ he said. ‘It’ll be something for you to remember your dear father by. I’ve got my own memories of him – he was a good chap.’

  ‘In that case, I should like to very much. Thank you.’

  Jago took the handbill and carefully folded it in half. He noticed that Cradock seemed to be studying his face.

  ‘Come along, Peter,’ he said. ‘It’s time for us to go.’

  He slipped the handbill into his pocket, and they left.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  ‘And before you ask,’ said Jago, ‘yes, I know it’s past your lunchtime, and yes, I know you’re starving, so yes, we will stop at the first coffee stall we come to and I’ll buy you a sandwich. Cheese and pickle? You seemed to be keen on that yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, yes, guv’nor, that’d be perfect.’

  Eleanor Road was not a likely location for a coffee stall, but they found one as soon as they turned onto Romford Road, and Jago parked the car behind a lorry. To Cradock’s delight, he bought not only cheese and pickle sandwiches but also a currant bun and a coffee for each of them. A man in overalls who might have been the driver of the truck and a couple of young women in the khaki uniform of the Auxiliary Territorial Service were standing in front of the stall, so Jago ushered Cradock away a little to where they could talk without being overheard.

  ‘Well, what did you make of that?’ he said.

  ‘Of what, sir?’

  ‘Of Ballantyne’s story – him and Joan.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Cradock through a mouthful of sandwich. ‘He seems a likeable old buffer, but those singing lessons sounded a bit dodgy. Old man like that alone with a woman like her? I mean, he was the one who reckoned it was all about helping to make young women’s dreams come true. Maybe he wasn’t just teaching her how to practise her scales.’

  ‘He seemed quite honest when he was talking about his past indiscretions, though, don’t you think?’ said Jago. ‘He gave the impression that he’d learnt his lesson and put that sort of behaviour behind him.’

  ‘Well, he would say that, I suppose, given that she’s been murdered. He was certainly quick to write himself out of the picture as far as getting up to anything with Joan was concerned – even though he’d as good as admitted his wife thought that’s exactly what he’d been doing. He also made sure to tell us he was just a silly old fool, and maybe that’s right – there’s enough years between him and Joan. But maybe he was really more of a sugar daddy. I mean, from what he was saying about his legacy it doesn’t sound like he’s short of a bit of money to splash around.’

  ‘And his alibi?’

  ‘Spent the night with an actor who’d do anything to help a pal? If you ask me, I think we ought to have a word with Mrs Ballantyne on her own as soon as we get the chance.’

  ‘You’re right. But if you’ve got your strength up now, we need to see those Sullivans again.’ Jago checked his watch. ‘If Ernie’s prediction was right, George at least might be back in half an hour or so.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Can I make a suggestion, sir?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why don’t we stop off and see if Audrey’s in on the way? She only lives just over the road there, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. But what’s your thinking?’

  ‘Well, Beryl said Joan started having her singing lessons because she felt like a prisoner in that house, and possibly in her marriage. We know Joan and Audrey didn’t get on, so maybe we should hear Audrey’s side of it.’

  ‘True. Good thinking, Peter. We need to find out whether she can confirm what Mrs Ballantyne said about them being together on Sunday evening too – we’ll drop by and see if anyone’s at home.’

  The turning to Carnarvon Road was only yards from where they were standing, so they left the car where it was and walked to Audrey’s house. Their knock at the door brought no response, but just as they were about to turn away the door opened to reveal Derek Marwell.

  ‘Ah, good afternoon, Officers,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’

  ‘We were just passing, sir,’ Jago replied. ‘But actually it’s
your mother-in-law we were hoping to see.’

  ‘Ah, she’s out, I’m afraid. There’s only me in the house – I’ve just got in from an early shift. It’s non-stop, you know. I’ll be back there at midnight on fire-watching duty, and then I’ve got another early shift tomorrow. No time to sleep, even – sometimes it feels like I live in that place. Anyway, I shouldn’t keep you on the doorstep. Would you like to come in? She might be back soon, for all I know.’

  ‘We will come in for a moment, thank you. We can’t stay long, but you may be able to help us yourself.’

  Marwell took them into the same room in which Audrey had previously entertained them.

  ‘Do sit down, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I always find it a little awkward having visitors, what with it being Audrey’s house. She’s kindly taken us in, but it’s not the same as having your own place, is it? I still feel somehow as if I’m trespassing. Elsie doesn’t, of course – this was her home before we were married. We did have our own little house until quite recently, but we were bombed out when the air raids started, and Audrey’s let us have a room here.’

  ‘Yes, your wife told us.’

  ‘Of course. It’s not ideal, but we’ve just got to put up with it. No houses are being built now, and they say it could be years before anything’s available. On the night we were bombed the ARP people took us to one of those rest centres, but it turns out they were only designed to shelter people for a few hours – just some chairs and blankets, a cup of cocoa and a sandwich, not a place to live. We’d lost everything – all we had was the clothes we stood up in – but the council seemed to have no idea what to do with us. Elsie was very angry about it. She feels these things, you know.’

  ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘Audrey’s been good to us. She’s not exactly flush with money, but she’s letting us have the room free, so we can save up for a deposit on another place. I thought we should move out and rent a flat, but Elsie said no. She wasn’t brought up renting and she wants us to have a house of our own.’

  ‘We were told that Elsie’s father had put a considerable amount of money away somewhere but that your mother-in-law hadn’t found it yet. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes. I hope they find it, although I suspect there may be some mystery about how he came by it, if you know what I mean, so that might explain why it’s not been easy to trace. Elsie’s certainly very keen to find it, because then we could get our own home. Mind you, if she did find it I’m not sure she’d tell her mum – I think she’d want to take the lot and get out. Anyway, one way or another we could do with coming into some money out of the blue, like Vera and Greville did.’

  ‘You know Mr and Mrs Ballantyne well?’

  ‘Not terribly – I’ve met them when they’ve been here visiting Audrey. Ridiculous name, isn’t it? I can’t believe anyone could really be called Greville Ballantyne – he must’ve made it up for the stage. Talk about grand – I call him Burlington Bertie when he’s not around to hear. They were as poor as church mice when I first met them, but now they seem to be living in clover.’

  ‘Yes, they told me they’d come into some money a couple of years ago.’

  ‘That’s right – it was just after Elsie’s dad passed away. I sometimes wonder whether he’d lent them the money privately, and they just kept quiet when he died, hoping no one knew about it. He made his living out of lending at exorbitant rates, from what I’ve heard, but maybe he made some loans at more reasonable rates to friends and then conveniently popped his clogs. I don’t suppose there’d have been any paperwork to complicate things.’

  ‘I understood from Mr Ballantyne that it was a legacy.’

  ‘Really? Well, that shows how much I know, then. As I said, I don’t know them well. I’d just like to have some of their luck. Elsie’s convinced her dad salted his money away. She says he once told her he’d got a little nest egg hidden somewhere, and the bird sitting on it wouldn’t sing to the taxman, whatever that means. But please don’t tell her I said that, will you?’

  ‘While we’re talking about Mr Ballantyne, there’s something I’d like to ask you.’

  ‘Of course. What is it?’

  ‘It’s to do with Joan. We understand that she was taking singing lessons.’

  ‘Really? I didn’t know.’

  ‘And the person who was coaching her was Mr Ballantyne.’

  ‘Well, that makes sense, I suppose. I mean, he used to be a professional singer, so what better person to teach her?’

  ‘I’d like to know more about Joan’s relationship with him, and that’s what I came here to ask your mother-in-law, but I wonder whether you can shed any light on it for us yourself.’

  ‘Relationship? No, I’m afraid I can’t. I know he’s a friend of the family and a singer, but I don’t know any more than that.’

  ‘I understand you’re involved in amateur dramatics.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘And that’s related to the world of singing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not really. We do plays, but there’s no singing in them, except perhaps the occasional song in a Shakespeare comedy. But you don’t have to be a good singer to do them.’

  ‘I just wondered whether you might’ve come across any information in the course of your dramatic activities that might be relevant to our enquiries.’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Marwell paused for a moment, his eyes closed in concentration, then abruptly opened them. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘there is just one small thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It may be just gossip, but I’ve heard he used to be a bit of a ladies’ man, and I’ve also heard it suggested that perhaps he still chances his arm in that respect from time to time. Nothing that I could prove, though.’

  ‘You didn’t ever hear Joan say anything about it?’

  ‘No, but I’m not sure that’s the kind of thing she’d have confided in me. I mean, it’s more the sort of thing women talk to each other about, isn’t it? Unless they want a male friend to go and punch him on the nose, in which case I don’t think I’m the man she would’ve chosen for the job.’

  ‘Your wife hasn’t ever mentioned anything?’

  ‘No, but I’ll ask her when I see her, if you like.’

  ‘Thank you. Tell her to contact us, please, if she does know anything.’

  ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’

  ‘No, Mr Marwell. We’ll leave you in peace now.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  ‘Well,’ said Jago as he and Cradock returned to the car. ‘We didn’t learn much about Joan and Ballantyne, but what Marwell said about the money was interesting. First thing tomorrow morning I want you to check with all the local estate agents and find out who handled the Ballantynes’ house purchase – someone should remember if it was only a couple of years ago. Whoever did it should be able to tell you who the Ballantynes bank with, or were banking with at the time. Then get on to the bank manager and find out where the money came from.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And now let’s pop down to Windmill Lane.’

  It was only a few hours since they had last visited the Sullivans’ home. This time George Sullivan met them with a look of weary exasperation.

  ‘For goodness’ sake,’ he said. ‘Don’t you people ever give up? Haven’t you got anything better to do than come round pestering the local residents?’

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Sullivan,’ said Jago. ‘We’ll come in, if you don’t mind.’

  With a resigned shake of his head Sullivan let them in. He took them up the stairs and through to the kitchen at the back of the flat, where Jago was surprised to find both Martin and Ernie.

  ‘Well, well,’ he mused. ‘A full house.’

  Cradock slipped round behind the three men and stood near the door to the outside stairs that led down from the flat into the back yard.

  Jago acknowledged the two sons with a brief glance but addressed his fi
rst comments to the father.

  ‘Right, Mr Sullivan, I want to ask you again about your movements on Sunday. Earlier today you said all three of you spent the night together in your Anderson shelter, but I now have evidence that makes me doubt that.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ said Sullivan. ‘What kind of evidence?’

  ‘A witness claims you were not all here when you said you were.’

  ‘It’s a lie. Who told you that?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say, I’m afraid.’

  Sullivan responded with a menacing glare at Jago, and looked as though he was about to add some threatening words, but he was interrupted by his elder son.

  ‘Shut up, Dad,’ said Ernie. ‘They’re not idiots.’ He turned to Jago. ‘You don’t have to worry about me, Inspector. I’m big enough to take care of myself. I know what I said about not telling them, but I’ve changed my mind. If they’re mixed up in any way with what happened to poor Joan, I’m not going to lie for them – they deserve whatever they get. You can tell them what I said. I don’t care any more.’

  ‘What?’ shouted his father. ‘It was you? You ungrateful, two-faced little—’

  George Sullivan launched himself at Ernie and began pounding him with his fists. The sailor, considerably lighter on his feet, parried most of the blows and then drove a punch into his father’s stomach, sending him reeling, breathless, into the corner of the room. Martin stepped forward and tried to help him up, but George, fighting for his breath, pushed him away. He attempted to get to his feet, but the effort was too much for him. He fell back, crashing into a heavy oak sideboard. Ernie stood over him, rubbing his knuckles.

  ‘As I was saying, Mr Sullivan,’ said Jago, addressing the defeated man on the floor, ‘I don’t believe your story about Sunday night, and I’m inclined to believe you were actually at the Regal cinema helping yourself to the contents of the safe.’

  ‘It’s not true,’ Sullivan hissed.

  ‘I also believe that your son Martin was there with you.’